


What Does Revenge Get You?

by NovemberJinni



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Clint Needs a Hug, Laura and Clint don't have kids, M/M, Natasha Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-06-03 17:18:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6619495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovemberJinni/pseuds/NovemberJinni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint finds Laura murdered after coming home from a mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint find Laura murdered after coming home from mission.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this, not with her laying there with her eyes open. Blood staining their sheets and dripping onto the floor. Her face frozen in mid-scream. But here he is, standing in the doorway, barely moving an inch staring at his wife’s mangled body.

_“Promise you won’t be too long, will you?”_

His knees hit the wooden floor. Her eyes. Her beautiful brown eyes. The same eyes that he joked about until she finally threw her hands up screaming that he has a minute to ask her out before she does.

_“Ten bucks say you try to recruit another baddie.”_

A wet chuckle escapes, she was never going to let him forget that. Hell, he kept bringing up the time she rescued a little ducking from being attacked by a roaming dog. Next thing he knows, the dog and the duck become best of friends after weeks of feeding and treats. Tons of treats. Another chuckle escapes, but ends up sounding like a wail in the end.

_“Clint, I’m thinking we should get another dog.”_

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there. But Natasha is there. Gripping his head tightly to look at her, but he can’t. His eyes won’t leave his wife’s. Something seems wrong with them. He can’t figure it out.

-

Clint wakes up with the sun in his face. With a couple of headaches; one behind his eyes, and another the side of his head. He runs through his hair, there’s a bump.

“I’m sorry about that,” Natasha says. She’s leaning across from him. Her hands covering her mouth and chin barely sitting on the chair in front of him. Natasha, the one who barely loses her composure, had tear stains.

He sits up slowly, quickly checking his hearing aids. Still in. She must have moved him to the couch after hitting his head. “It’s—”, he croaks, “It’s alright.” He tries to clear his throat; it feels like he’s screamed for hours. And cried for hours, since his face feels funky. Who knows, he probably did. Everything is still a blur. Except for Laura.

“Clint,” she pauses, breathing in a shaky breath. She’s fiddling with her fingers, actually fiddling. “Clint, what —”, she stops. Her face scrunches, shakes her head once before finally giving up speech all together. It’s not surprising after all, Laura was her first female friend that didn’t have an agenda to back stab her or expect her deadly assassin training. When Clint brought her to the farm, she didn’t expect to find Laura there with a cup of coffee out for Clint and a blanket wrapped ready too. Hell, if anything she thought they were taking her to middle of nowhere to kill her off. However, she got Laura instead. Now… Clint didn’t want to even finish that thought.

For a while, they stayed like this: Natasha controlling herself, Clint sitting across from her. He doesn’t even cry, everything feels numb. Even his couch, the most comfortable couch confirmed by Tony Stark, whose slept on more beds than Clint would in his lifetime, says it’s a god send. Suddenly doesn’t feel as soft or cushiony. It was one of the first things that Laura picked out.

He beelines towards the kitchen for a glass of water, his throat burns. And he needs to wash his face. If Nat’s has tear stains, his can’t be pretty either. After his third glass, he finally looks over to Natasha whose leaning against the doorframe. Clint knows what she’s about to ask, but he can’t. He shakes his head. She pleads silently. Being friends for years now, a tilt of her head means only a few things, and he knows exactly what she’s trying to say. “Sit down,” he orders, “I have to do this.” How long have his hands been shaking, he whispers, “For her.” He leaves a glass of water on the counter for her, before leaving to bury his wife.

-

Slowly, Clint climbs back to his bedroom. He’s not sure how he’ll do this, walking all the way down to the hall, finding his wife laying there. Her eyes pleading for help, for him. And the blood.

Natasha must have covered her body, and moped up the blood that was pooling under their bed. Laura’s body was wrapped in the bloody sheets and bed spread, he only paused once then clicked into autopilot. Gripping the bed spread tightly around her, he carried her to the back of the barn. There was a fire wood stacked next to it. Simply thinking of burying her would destroy him. Just knowing she’s six feet under being eaten worms, he shuddered. Forever trapped on this property, as if still waiting for him to come home. No, she deserves to be scattered hopefully fly through the continents, maybe make it to Hawaii. Laura made plans next year for their anniversary to visit Hawaii. Saying it was the destination to relax and enjoy a break from the farm and bad guys. _“Bad guys don’t attack Hawaii, they’re not that bad, Clint. Don't eye roll me.”_

Carefully, he placed her down and begun to make a fire pit a couple of yards away. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, a tell that someone—Natasha—was watching him. Even when facing his wife’s death, his spy instincts never take a break.

By the time the fire pit was finished, and Laura’s body laid in the center, two hours have already passed. Natasha crept out at one point, holding out a bottle of gasoline. Giving one final kiss on Laura’s forehead, Clint watched the flames engulf his wife while holding Natasha’s hand. If he heard Natasha sniff, he only gave a light squeeze.

-

It was a night again when he came back in. Natasha sitting back where her glass was. But at least appears to have more control of herself. The glass in her hands would say otherwise. He sat down next to her, reaching out to grip her hand. Then pulls it back. Any more human contact and a dam might break behind his eyes. So that leaves the next best thing: he grabs her glass, reaches for the vodka that’s stored back in the fridge and pours her a double. But not before he takes one for himself.

Nat slings it back. Without missing a beat, she asks, “I’m going back to SHIELD in a week. Are you staying or going?”

A week. Laura would be angry with him if he went. Never say it out loud, yet she wanted him to stay. Always afraid Agent Phil driving up in a sleek black car telling her the terrible news. She never said, but he read it through her features and actions, just like Nat. Although Nat was harder to crack. That’s why he told Laura that the last mission was _the_ Last Mission. She smiled, patted his cheek with a quick peck and wished him luck. But Laura isn’t here to greet him back from a successful mission, to claim her prize of winning another bet, to give him coffee in the morning, to give him sweet pecks on the cheek before leaving again. She— died. Murdered by god knows who.

And those bastards— “Coming.” Then finishes another double shot, slamming the glass down, where it cracked and crumbled in his hand.


	2. Mr. Russian Assassin

After a week of cleaning, decluttering, and selling. Including his ducks and one dog. Turns out that Clint didn’t need the whole week to straighten out everything especially with Nat’s help. However, Clint couldn’t sell the house, he couldn’t imagine this house—their home—being lived in by anyone but Laura and him. With three days left, they’ve had done everything they could. The only furniture that Clint couldn’t even look at, Nat stored it in his attic. Three days before they left, a plan began to form; head towards SHIELD, call in a few favors—or interrogate—whichever has a more promising result, relocate then head out for some sweet _sweet_ revenge.

But the first question—really the only question—on his mind is who the hell found out about his wife? The only person who knows about Laura is Natasha, since Laura was an only child and her parents died about a decade ago. Even SHIELD doesn’t know. Okay he lied to himself, he does have one question for Nat. But he’d rather hold that off.

On the second last day, they took Nat’s car off to New York. Clint wanted more than anything to leave his truck behind. Sure there will be a few neighbors and friends asking what happened to his ride, but anything reminding of his peaceful life here would be only a distraction to him now.

With two bags to his name, they left everything behind including a little headstone. They have been driving for five hours until Clint breaks the silence, “My apartment still intact?”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, keeping her eyes on the road. “Do you really think I would get rid of your apartment?”

He’s been holding off on asking this, but he had to know. Slowly Clint whispers, “Why were you at the farm?”

Without missing a beat, “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me,” he challenges.

“It started when I had to be an assistant for Tony Stark, and it got a bit hectic in the end,” her fingers start to tap the wheel.

This is surprisingly new, Nat fidgeting. What’s next; Gods are real, and people can rise from the dead? He would laugh if he didn’t want his head slammed on the dashboard. “I don’t see—.”

Nat stops him with a tiny shake, “That’s not the problem. Fury and Agent Coulson got this idea to create a team—not a normal team with field agents that we would have to babysit every month.” She pauses, Clint could see her thoughts collecting. She’s trying to not tell him something. This might be above his pay-grade. “And I was to come in to convince you to join.”

Him? Join? Last time he checked, Phil said he couldn’t play well with others. It’s not his fault, they keep assigning him with idiots. He’s just lucky that he spotted Nat when he did. Or he’d still be three levels below instead of one of the best SHIELD agent. She’s definitely leaving out information. But at least he got a half of an answer. Knowing Natasha, he’ll hear the rest in a month. If he’s lucky.

Tilting his head to the side, he changes the topic, “So my apartment, you demolished it, didn’t you? Completely ruined my creaky floor boards and everything that lives there.”

Happy for the change of topic, she smirks. That’s the only answer he needs.

“Wait,” he groans, “Please tell me you didn’t.”

Nat feign innocence with a silent _what?_ Glancing back to Clint slouching into the seat, “Now why would I do that?”

Pointing back to her, “Don’t give me that look. I know you're evil. You would change the walls only to match the curtains and redecorate the house with a useless coffee machine.” She gives him a pointed look. “Okay maybe it wasn’t up to code, but it had character. It had a personality!” He grumbles, “I could have easily fixed it when I got time around to do it.”

Nat snorts, “No you couldn’t have, since you never stayed in there longer than five minutes. Plus, it’s called furniture. Living off a battered mattress in a goddamn corner isn’t character. It’s sad. Especially with a minimum amount of food,” She holds up two fingers, “Two crackers, Clint! I found two crackers in the cupboard and that doesn’t count since they were being eaten by a mouse.” Natasha shakes her head, whispering, “Sometimes I wonder how you’ve survived without—.”

“Nat,” Clint interrupts, rubbing his face with his hand. They sit silently. He really shouldn’t have given her the keys to his apartment when he left New York. Yet Nat needed a place off the radar, and he needed people to assume he was still around while he was visiting Laura. Especially when Clint knew he’d be getting at least over two weeks of free time—turned out to be three weeks—until SHIELD called him in for an underground mission.

_“Clint.” Her eyes haunting him. Slowly, her mangled body leans over—._

Clint shakes his head awake, he didn’t realize he had fallen asleep. Granted, he has been running on over twenty-four hours of no-sleep, but can he blame himself? Every time he tries, he starts to see Laura there. Leaving that memory back in the farthest reaches of his mind, now’s not the time to remember. He commands quietly, “Pull over, you’ve driven for more than enough hours now. And we still got twenty some hours to go.”

It’s midafternoon, the sun glaring at him. “In eight hours, I drive.”

This time Clint snorts, “Why would I challenge that? You'd kick me out of the car without realizing what you did until you're thirty miles ahead.  Get some sleep.”

By the time, New York City finally rises in the horizon. Clint jolts forward; a new determine flame ignites in him. Every ounce of anger risen from Laura’s grave. His contacts better still alive, if not… Well Clint guesses he’ll have to do this the old fashion way.

-

“What do you mean I have to go on a mission?” Clint shouts.

“Clint,” Natasha warns holding him back. Fury sits behind his desk. Even sitting down he seems to hold all the power. They just got back from dumping his two bags in newly refurbished apartment— _Dammit Nat, you said you kept my chair_.

However, the minute they got back. The second they walk in, they get pulled into Nick Fury’s office debrief Clint on a recon mission. Sure, he’s an agent. And yes, he’s always on board for a recon or two. But he just wanted to report in, act like everything is hunky dory as if no one was recently murdered, then head out to call a few people. Let’s be honest, why would he be that lucky?

“I don’t need Natasha for this recon mission. I need eyes—your eyes,” Nick clasps his hands together, “And last time I remembered, _Agent_ , is that you work for me.” He pauses. Clint swears he loves to be dramatic, as much as Tony Stark. “Now you have two options here either take this mission, or you’re benched back into beginning baby Agent training for so long that you’ll begging for me to end you,” he finishes holding up the file.

Not even holding back his glare, Clint storms out but not before he snatches the file. Clint might not be the brightest with barely a proper education to his name, but after a couple of years dealing with Nick Fury and Agent Coulson—and Natasha on her worst days—he knew when he should cave.

At least, it’s a simple recon mission; check out a base in Holland, report if anything seems suspicious—which it always does, then come back with some muffins and mittens for Nat and Phil. Maybe a scarf for Fury, then strangle him with it.

_"What little knickknack would you get me this time?”_

He can almost picture her saying that in her soft blue chair with a small smirk playing on her lips, knowing full well that calling his souvenirs knickknacks launch in a never-ending argument. He made it to the elevator hearing an echo of Laura’s laugh, jumping—only a little—when Nat reaches out to touch his shoulder. “Jesus Nat, warn a guy.”

She rolls her eyes, firmly holding onto his shoulders, “I need you to calm down. I’m still going to look into a few people to help out with your apartment.” During the car ride, Clint decided any reference to Laura and this mission were strictly about the apartment. Thankfully, Nat’s paranoia seems to match Clint’s on a good day. To anyone outside of their plan, it would be an innocent concern about a malnourished apartment… To them, secret codes and names. “Just… You. Need. To. Breathe.” Nat grits her teeth.

Taking a deep breath, he plasters on a relieved smile for anyone near, “You’re right, Nat. I really wanted to call that furniture store down the street.” Nat caught his meaning, if he wasn’t standing next to Nat, he would have missed the slight fire in her eyes.

“Clint, I will do it for you. Go. And eat something.” With a final sweet smile, she shoves him out of the elevator towards the jets.

Clint flips her off as he jogged to his favorite jet.

-

Turns out, the base is, in fact, a _Hydra_ base. Not even a tiny Hydra base, no. Why would he be so lucky? This large ass Hydra base that camouflages itself between a shack and cabin outside, and who knows how many miles deep, there’s a freaking Hydra base. How’d SHIELD miss this building for so long beats him.

No Clint is not freaking out. He’s calmly thinking what the hell has come to his life that there’s a Hydra base that big, and no one noticed until now. Actually now thinking about it, Fury might have had an inkling. And he’s the idiot who got captured by said Hydra base. He can’t even say it isn’t his fault. One minute he’s zoning out perched high above a tree—wondering how he got Laura’s blood on his hands—next thing his sixth sense kicks in launching him to a nearby tree.

A quarter sized bullet hole lands where his head leaned seconds ago. Without another death invitation, Clint leapt on the ground, fires two arrows back to his shooter. He must have hit his target since he’s racing back to the parked jeep with no bullets following him. Once he’s in his jeep, he’ll ride until he’s at the jet then report back to Fury about this pimple-on-a-continent-base. But before he has a chance to get another four yards, another bullet hit its mark—his right thigh. Clutching onto his thigh, he staggers two more steps. Guess the two arrows didn’t slow the guy down, whomever is tracking him down. Without looking, he fires another arrow behind him. Two more steps forward, a click from a rifle stops him short. That sounded far closer than he thought for comfort, Clint glances up wheezing.

A straggly man head foot taller than himself stared him down with a barrel of a gun. Is this how it ends? A snowed forest in the middle of nowhere?... And to die without Laura’s murder solved? A final flare made Clint leap behind a tree, another gunshot echoing. The assassin followed, shooting the tree repeatedly. Seriously, how can that guy shoot with that hair in his eyes. Mr. Assassin growls, “капитуляция.” Correction, Mr Russian Assassin.

Clint coughs a harsh laugh. Maybe he should have slept a little more before heading out. But Mr. Russian Assassin did say surrender, right? Not happening. Not until— _“Clint, please.”_ Laura? The butt of Mr. Russian Assassin’s gun slams above his head.

-

He groans, great now there’s another bump. Oh head, no. Doesn’t help that it’s sitting right on top of Nat’s old bump. And it was getting better too. His head, hands, and legs are tied to a –is this a table? Oh, that’s fantastic. First, Laura, then a bullet to the thigh, a hallucination of Laura’s voice, and finally walking up on a display table like James Bond. He’s the next pet-tortured-rat.

 _“Just like another James Bond movie, right. Next a villainous monologue follows.”_ Laura. There is Laura over to his left in a dark corner, as if she was never stabbed repeatedly. In the same outfit before he left: an orange sweater and snug jeans. Clint blinks. This whole time, she was here. That body back at home a lie—clearly someone else to look like her, he doesn’t know how. Maybe Hydra stole her in the night, or she was at the wrong place at the wrong time—it must be because here she is, smiling that dimpled smile he only sees when he makes a goof of himself. She’s here.

Hope blooms in Clint’s eyes. He’s about to call for her to promise to get out of here together. No matter what.

“Now Hawkeye,” Clint shuts his mouth immediately, glancing to his right. But the beams and throbbing headache give him a challenge to see whomever spoke. So he glances back over to Laura, but she’s gone. No trace that she was ever standing there in that dark corner. Gulping down the realization, he focuses back to the hidden man talking. Like a James Bond villain, he has a British accent—next they’ll be calling Clint the new Bond back the agency—, “I’m Dr. Cammis. I’ve very happy to see you. I’ve been told you have quite the tolerance level. I wonder if that includes this.” A middle-aged man in a dirty lab coat leaned over with a long needle stabbing his arm. Clint grunted. “Maybe not.”

Breathing, “No I just have a thing with needles.”

He sneered, “Oh this is going to be fun. But first, you won’t need these.” Quickly, Dr. Cammis pulls out his hearing aids. Clint struggles not to show it, but that’s when he panics.

If this guy doesn’t kill him, Nat most certainly will after this.

-

“Wake up.” A hard grip held onto his upper forearm, practically dragging him to his feet.

Clint crumples forward, hacking up the little remaining contents in his stomach. Well whatever they have injected him with has definitely raise the bar on any future torture, at least in the drug department. Yet it still isn’t the worst Clint has been through. It’s not until whatever is left of his stomach is on his shoes, he notices his ears are back. At least he won’t have to hunt those down when he’s busting out.

The world seems to be tilting and moving. He can barely focus on one image without his stomach turning and his head pounding louder than it already is. Whomever is dragging him—actually it’s more like carrying with his one foot barely touching the ground—to another room. Since he was too busy hacking his stomach out that he hasn’t kept an eye on his surroundings.

The goon stops at the end of the corridor by a deadlocked door leading to Clint’s new prison cell. It’s a lot bigger than his last cell. With a final click of the door shutting, Clint slumps down facing the door. But he doesn’t realize that the goon—it’s Mr. Russian Assassin, are they low on staff?— dragging him came in with him and standing in front of the door as if to stop Clint if he tries to leave. Like Clint could leave, this a one way sealed room with no windows and hardly a crack in sight. Maybe if he was Sherlock or Natasha. Which only leaves one option as why he followed in: physical torture. Finished with the psychological, now Hydra decides to finish it off with a cherry on top. At least he didn’t see another Laura hallucination. Clint’s not sure if he would have survived if Laura appeared again.

Clint’s still sitting on the floor staring above Mr. Russian Assassin. Man, this guy scares the shit out of Clint. Appearing like a complete beast about to tear apart this blonde prey. Clint tries to focus on Mr. Russian Assassin’s features, but his head still spins and the most he can decipher are his blue eyes. Those eyes could pierce his soul. He really needs to stop call him that nickname. It's a mouthful, even in Clint's head. Mr. Russian Assassin barks, “Встаньте.” 

Leaning his head backwards, so Mr. Russian Assassin wants him to stand up. Odd, usually they’d attack immediately, especially since he willing went to the floor where it’s a perfect position of his foot. “If we’re going to be going to second base tonight, I’d like to at least know your name,” giving him his best charming smirk.

He blinks, guess he’s not met Clint’s infamous flirting-with-death-technique. His rough voice grating against the walls, “The Asset.”

Clint’s smirk falls. Well shit. He really is corned in by a predator. The Predator. Nat is definitely going to kill him now. That is if the Winter Solider doesn’t kill him first.


	3. Psychiatrist Needed

Ignoring every pain in his body, Clint slowly focuses on the Winter Soldier. If he’s going to live, he should be grateful that the soldier wants him standing—a better surviving rate, definitely not injuries. But Clint needs to live another day or Nat’s going to slap him… And maybe Phil. Plus, he might not admit it but he’s getting a little dusty.

His body relaxes by instinct; he doesn’t bring up his fists or a proper stance—that only distracts him if he needs to focus on his opponent. With a cheesy grin, “Ready whenever you are, buddy.”

The soldier doesn’t even broad for a minute longer—no thinking of where it’d hurt most, maybe? He just launches into action, ready to maul his new chew toy. Giving Clint barely any time to wonder what a possible plan after he knocks the Winter Soldier on his ass—what can he say? He’s a dreamer—until he’s thrown across his cell hitting the concrete _hard._ What’s with people going for his head?

“I take it you’re not much of a talker. Mind if I do?” Clint pants. He can already imagine Nat rolling her eyes if she heard him. Dodging a fist to his face, he jabs the soldier’s gut, following with a right hook to his jawline. The Winter Soldier hardly bats an eye; he jabs a fist to his shoulder with a loud pop. Clenching his teeth shut, Clint focuses on getting onto the Winter Soldier’s back to get in to a deadlock, but needs a bit of a distraction.

“You’re what?” Ducks, “About ten years younger than me?” Two more punches, “So how long have you been with Hydra?” A swift hit to the soldier’s legs—he doesn’t go down, “And who was the previous Winter Soldier? Would I—” He’s finally behind him in a deadlock. However, the soldier simply slams Clint against the wall, his head backing into Clint’s forehead. His grip loosening a smidge, but it’s enough for the Soldier to throw him across the room again. What is with this guy and throwing his chew toys?

The soldier tries to kick Clint’s side, but Clint jumps over, going for a swing too. He _catches_ his leg then with a simple twist, Clint falls down. Or at least his body wants to, but the Winter Soldier grabs the front of his shirt slamming him against the wall. Holding onto the soldier’s wrist, Clint grunts out, “You know, if you keep doing this. They won’t give you another toy.”

The Winter Soldier inches forward enough for Clint to feel his breath on his cheek. His eyes glaring hard at Clint—it almost makes him squirm, but he’s dealt with Natasha’s killer glares, “Может быть, я не хочу, чтобы мой жевании игрушку.”

His mouth locks shut— _“Maybe I don’t want my chew toy.”_ —or at least that’s what Clint thinks he heard, but his head injury is starting to catch up with him faster than he would like. Everything’s swimming; his right hearing aid slipped out earlier. And it might be getting a bit harder to breathe. Clint goes for a head butt, connecting hard—momentarily blinding him but it gets the soldier to stagger back. Then with enough momentum, Clint pulls the soldier’s feet out of him, landing him on his ass—wow, his dream came true. Trying for a final kick the soldier’s side hard, the soldier dodges as he collides with Clint’s midsection—well, dreams were meant to be difficult to achieve and this dream has his back with an over two-hundred-pound bulk on top of him. Well isn’t this a sight to see, two assassins breathing heavily with one on top of the other. Clint wheezes, “I’m not really in the mood to kiss.”

A smirk—a godforsaken smirk—crosses his face, “В следующий раз.”

His body freezes— _“Next time.”_ Nope. Nope, definitely not happening. He doesn’t care how beautiful his eyes are, or the way his body looks like it’s dancing while he’s fighting. Without Laura—he stops that thought, dragging out the rage with her murder. With a final desperation, Clint tries to break free, but the soldier hits him in the face, leaving him unconscious on the floor.

-

_“Clint,”_ Clint groans awake. Trying his best to sit up, but the cement floor is cold enough for his bruises and a fever with a side of a severe migraine. Nope, he can’t lie on his stomach, the Winter Solider definitely broke his rib, one of them poking his right lung. Something’s probably sprained too. Keeping his eyes shut since the smallest light worsens his migraine, he struggles a bit more until his back’s against the wall.

Man that guy can through a punch. And Clint’s punches? Half of them barely did anything. Once he’s out of here, he’s heading straight to the gym with a week’s worth of training with Natasha. Clint really needs to work out more… And maybe visit a psychiatrist if he’s starting to think the deadliest assassin in history flirted with him. Yup, definitely head injury.

_“Clint,”_ Clint groans again. Painfully, Clint opens his left eye since the other eye barely opens a millimeter from the swelling. There sitting next to him is Laura cross-legged with a concern dent in between her eyebrows. Oh he could kiss that little dent. Slowly, without trying to upset anymore wounds or discover more, he reaches over to caress her cheek. But his hand doesn’t meet anything. Only air. A small sob broke through his lips. _“Clint.”_ Maybe he should see the psychiatrist first instead of the gym.

He keeps his hand hovering close to her cheek, even if it is to delude himself, controlling his breathing, “Please, Laura’s ghost. Or hallucination. Or whatever leftover drugs are in my system,” he grinds his teeth. His lungs feel like their being choked out with every breath he takes. But he continues softly, “Please... Leave. It hurts seeing you here. Seeing you seeing me like this.” Another breath, “I’ve never wanted you to see me like this.” Another breath, he’s not going to keep this up, “Can you come back when I’m safe and you’re not looking at me as if I might die here.”

Laura shakes her head no—determination sets in her features. Clint loves that look, the look when she’s made up her mind; she’s staying for god knows how long and there’s nothing he can do. He gives her small watery smile, tears straining his face. If this is from the drugs that they pumped in him, god, he hopes this ends soon. …However, a small part of Clint wants her to stay. For her fingers to run through his hair, to be alive again. To touch her, feel her—No, this is getting dangerous. It’s only a hallucination. But when is he ever going see her like this again? So livid with life, with radiance… Maybe let him soak in her features for a little bit longer.

-

Without realizing he closed his eyes, he jolts up in a crouch position. Bad idea; his wounds scream, but he ignores it. Because the infamous Winter Solider stands there between the doorframe with a pistol aim to his head. “Подписывайтесь на меня,” he commands.

“And if I refuse?” Clint asks.

“Я буду тянуть вас,” he retorts back.

Dragging him out, kinky. Clint could make his job difficult. But that would mean getting a few more bruises, and he needs these to heal a little bit longer before he goes for another round with this predator.

“Положите их на,” tossing a pair of handcuffs at Clint’s feet.

Without a word, the cuffs sit snugly on his wrists, tight enough for no one to notice, but loose enough to break free. Squaring his shoulders, Clint strides out the room. One step out and the Winter Soldier zips towards Clint’s wrists. On reflex, Clint fights back, but the soldier barely bats an eyelash as he pulls him forward. Now they’re too close for comfort—again—at least for Clint, the soldier barely notices the distance as he tightens the cuffs.

Glancing down, the Asset’s eyes glint, “Я не буду целовать тебя.”

An inner flame roars in his ears. Schooling his features, Clint spats, “Good for you. I’d have broken your teeth if you tried.”

“Возможно я должен.” He smirks. Okay he definitely saw it this time. Do psychiatrists take walk-in patients?

“Don’t,” Clint growls, taking a step back to make a point. No matter how stunning this guy’s eyes pierce into him, Clint’s not about to seduce his way out of here. Sure he’s done it before, but that wasn’t with a two hundred pound of deadly assassin that almost killed Natasha. And he can still see Laura every time he closes his eyes.

Without the drugs pumping in his bloodstream, he notices the corridor has four other doors until it disappears around the bend. At the end of the bend has a large door with a handprint security lock that once unlocks has a pin pad underneath. Can never be said that Hydra isn’t paranoid with its secrets. Clint’s almost impressed if they weren’t holding him captive as the Winter Soldier’s chew toy. And that they are evil. Pushing him ahead with his gun between his shoulder blades, Clint walks into a bright room—the laboratory. Oh great. Another round of this.

However, instead of dragging him to the middle of the room, where the James Bond extraction table sits waiting for him, the Winter Soldier takes him over to another door on the other side of the room. He doesn’t remember that door. Granted, the light beams shining in his eyes made it a little difficult to see last time.

After another series of safety measures to get in, Dr. Cammis is waiting for Clint inside with his arms wide open as if to give Clint hug. Hugging a python sounds more appealing that getting three feet of this man. But it wasn’t Dr. Cammis that caught his eye in the end, it was the chair perched behind him. An electric chair. They’re going to kill him. Well if there was a sign to tell him to break out, now would be that moment.

“Mr. Hawkeye. It’s good to see you again. I hope you had as much fun as I did,” Dr. Cammis clasps a grip on Clint’s shoulder to steer him towards the chair. The soldier staying behind but his pistol never leaving his mark—still not good but his odds of escape are increasing. “Now if you were wondering about this beauty,” Dr. Cammis practically caresses the chair. “Well… Let’s make a demonstration, shall we?” He directs his question to the Winter Soldier. What did they mean? Were they going to kill the Winter Soldier for shits and giggles? Sure Clint really didn’t know the guy—and didn’t appreciate him beating the shit out of Clint—but to die for a demonstration first by an electric chair. He’d rather be shot by point blank than have a slow painful death. Yet again, for this doctor no matter how batty he is, wouldn’t just kill off Hydra’s best soldier without having his head mounted on their wall. Maybe they have a mini Winter Soldier trainee going to take over his position. But that still doesn’t explain why the Winter Soldier and not a normal Hydra goon?

Determination set in the soldier’s eyes, stepping forward until he’s being strapped in by other goons—so they aren’t low on staff, they just like to hide in the dark. Can Hydra get any creepier? If Clint wasn’t watching him, he wouldn’t have noticed the glint of fear behind the soldier’s eyes. He shuts his eyes as if he’s about to go to bed, instead of being zapped by who-knows-how-much voltage into his brain.

Everything happens quickly then; Dr. Cammis activates the chair, the Winter Soldier convulses, the lights go out—Clint springs into action.

Jabbing Dr. Cammis once in the face and twice in the stomach for good measure, he rushes forward the first goon—no, first _group_ of goons—taking them out one by one. Why couldn’t the Winter Soldier be this easy? He takes the first gun he spots. It’s awkward to hold with his hands still in cuffs, yet he makes it work. Rushing towards the door, he slams his shoulder in. The door flies open—this is too easy. He sprints out gun facing ahead in the lab. It’s been well over a minute; the backup generator hasn’t gone on. SHIELD already here? Why send in reinforcements? He’s only been gone for a couple of days—maybe three, but not a week.

Someone tackles him to the ground, the gun sliding across the floor. He grabs a clump of their hair—time to play dirty—biting down the hair to hold the goon down, he throws a punch. A quick block, a swift jab. This goon pushing him farther back with a kick to his face. He barely misses—their boots look familiar. Wait. This can’t be—. A punch to his face staggers him back, blocking another jab with their elbow. But he misses, their elbow hitting square into his face. Falling flat on his ass, he grunts. The goon stops, “Clint?”

Holding his nose, “Christ Nat, where the hell are your night vision goggles?”

Natasha fixes her hair quick, grabbing for a bobby pin for his handcuffs. Helping him up, she states, “Lost them. Come on, we have ten minutes to get out until the power gets back on.”

“My bow?” He asks, rubbing his free wrists.

She grabs behind her, passing over his bow and arrows. Are these new? Clint raises an eyebrow.

Nat notices his question, “Seriously? When don’t you need new arrows. Think of it as a gift from Tony.”

“Do I want to know?” Nat produces her only death glare reserved for him. “You’re right. I don’t.”

They cross the room back to the entrance of the laboratory, heading down the hallway. The first door they see, Nat rushes in, gun raise to her eye. As they climb the stairs, two more goons pop out—Nat took them out with her power legs. Sometimes Clint thinks he’s a show pony while Nat is the real agent.

Clint’s about to grab for the door when something catches the corner of his eye, turning his head. Laura sits on top of the stairwell, beckoning him to sit with her. Dragging back to reality, Nat pulls him back to the door. “No wait, let’s go up one more flight of stairs,” Clint states.

“Barton, this is the exit. We don’t have time to scavenger,” urging him back to the door.

“Please.” Nat reads his eye, she gives in, “Two minutes, then we’re going. Even if I have to drag you.”

She isn’t real—a hallucination. Nothing. However, as Clint rushes forward, the back of his hand reaches only a little bit out. Only a little to touch, but not far enough that Nat will notice. Air. Nothing but air. Gulping down any emotions, they sprint past Laura to another door. Clint glances back—Laura isn’t sitting there.

“What’s behind locked door number one,” he jokes.

With a swift notion, Natasha kicks it down easily. “Why is that always satisfying?”

Clint had a retort ready, holds it back when a bang echoes up the stairs. Right, limit time. Inside must be a storage room or an office because there are piles and _piles_ of paper inside. Quickly, Clint creeps in, while Natasha stands guard at the door. The room clutters with paper in every corner—did a tornado go through here? Skimming over some newspaper articles and past missions, his hand stops next to an old oak desk—the only neat object in the room—with two folders neatly stack on top. These must be the most recent. The lights turn on. Time has run out.

“Barton, let’s go!” Nat hisses, firing a shot to a goon. Clear shot.

Grabbing the two folders, Clint rushes out back to the exit. Nat far ahead of him pushes the previous door open. Rushing down the hall with their eyes open, a crash echo from behind them. Glancing back, the Winter Soldier—the _motherfucking_ Winter Soldier—rushes forward. Of course he wouldn’t be dead. Why would they make things easier for him? Another glance back, he actually looks deadlier than before. How is that possible? But now is not the time to ask questions when said deadly assassin is gaining distance.

Nat glances back to Clint who’s frantically waving to run faster. They burst through the doors—oh look his jet. So many questions for Nat. So little time. They’re half way there when bullets whiz past them. Without a second 'thought, Clint grabs Nat’s midsection as she turns to shoot their attacker over his shoulder. However, the bullets never stop. Pumping his legs harder, he rushes inside, dropping Nat at the doors for her to take care of their "little" problem.

They’re up in the air in no time without looking back at their assailant. Clint lets out a breath, at least he’s alive another day. “By the way,” Nat huffs out as she sits on the co-pilot, “Phil wants to see you when you get back.” Well alive for another two more hours.

-

Thirty minutes in the flight, Clint breaks the silence, “How long have I been missing?”

Nat wraps a small Tangled Band-Aid on her cheek; she’s already fixed a few cuts on her arm, as well as the bruises. Laura introduced Disney to Natasha—now Natasha is classified as a closet Disney junkie. The only know about her hobby so far are only Agent Coulson and Clint—although they think Fury knows. However, there’s no proof so far. Nat double checks for anymore wounds, “Six days.”

Six days? Okay, so he was on the table longer than an afternoon picnic. Or the Winter Soldier knocked him out longer than he thought. Or maybe both. Oh god, what happened? What happened to the Winter Soldier? He needs to stop thinking, or he’s going to have a brain aneurysm. Sighing, he ruffles his hair. Phil is going to ring his neck.

A slap across breaks him out of his thoughts. Before he protests, Nat pipes in, “You know what that’s for, Barton.”

He grumbles, rubbing his head, “So I wanted to check out the room, we still got out in time. Besides we still got out fine.

This time Natasha rolls her eyes, “Oh yes, almost getting killed by the Winter Soldier while dragging your dumbass is definitely on my bucket list.” She pauses, “What happened Clint?”

“I don’t know. I thought I was off radar for two days, Nat. Or three.” Nat’s eyes widen slightly. “This whack-a-doodle doctor injected me with drugs after I was captured by the Winter Soldier.”

“So you were there for an experiment,” she states but sounds more like a question.

Clint tilts his head, “That’s what I’ve been thinking.” Then proceeds to tell her everything that happened—minus Laura. He can’t have her thinking he’s clinically insane.

She hums, “Remember what happened in Harvard a couple of months ago?” “With Dr. Banner turning into a mean green fighting machine?” he asks. She nods. A huff, “What about him?”

Shaking her head, “No, it’s not that specifically,” she puts a Stitch band aid on his forehead. “And remember a couple of years later Tony Stark coming back as Iron Man?”

Now he’s confused, “Of course—would you stop beating around the bush, this isn’t like you—But yes, that was around the time Agent Phil sent me as a representative as SHIELD—he refused—I was a gentleman,” Nat gives him a disbelieving look, “Okay. Maybe a gentleman isn’t the right word.” Natasha scuffs. “Alright I was a downright asshole, happy? But hey, after five hours of drinking, we were the best of buddies. Even stayed over my apartment for the night since he wanted a break from the paparazzi.” Thinking back on it, maybe that wasn’t the greatest standing point to a friendship. Yet considering how he befriended Natasha, he’s not going to start complaining now. “So the Hulk and Ironman… What about them? They teaming up to make their own super team. Cause I don’t think I want to see what happens when those two butt heads.”

“No. They found Steve Rogers.”

Clint whistles, “Shit. Think Peggy Carter will be able to go to the funeral?”

Natasha pauses, “There won’t be a funeral.” Before he can ask how bad the body is decayed that they can’t do a funeral, she continues, “He’s alive.”

The information doesn’t register right away, because a man crashing into ice almost seventy years ago doesn’t count as alive. That counts as most certainly dead. Clint jokes, “Yea and my wi—” He catches himself before he says wife. This jet can still have bugs. “And I’m his trusty side kick, Bucky Barnes. I just celebrated my ninety-fourth birthday.”

Silence answers him. Clint looks back at Nat, “You can’t be serious, Nat. He’s been dead for—”

“For almost seventy years, we know. It doesn’t make sense, but he is,” she leans back in her chair, “Nick wants him to join our side, but Rogers isn’t up for it.”

“He wants him for the team you were mentioning last time. This was what you weren’t telling me, wasn’t it?” he asks. However, he already knows the answer.

Clint huffs, thinking this over. “Any word from your sources?” Clint taps on the controls. In the end, it doesn’t matter who rises from the dead, if it isn’t Laura.

She sighs, “Clint, I—”

Slamming his hand down on the controls, his hand starts to bruise, but barely notices. He knows what she’s about to say. Nothing, no news, not one _goddamn_ step to finding the truth.


	4. Nurse David

A scream runs through the medical bay at SHIELD headquarters. Clint turns to his nurse, David, “So glad I’m not that guy.”

Clint’s nurse—a nurse only for him. Which still he doesn’t understand why he has one—grunts, “Really, Clint? Two bruised ribs, a minor concussion with a sprained wrist. Why am I even surprised at this point?” he throws his hands in the air to emphasize.

He flinches from him poking his ribs, “I’ve dealt with worse.” He really has—most of which have been in the circus. He’s only a little surprised that his injuries aren’t worse. Granted, he doesn’t remember the time he was there. Why bother looking a gift horse in the mouth?

David rolls his eyes at Agent Barton’s remark. Since Clint receives more wounds than most agents—scratch that, all the agents—, he’s in the infirmary more than a decent _normal_ human being. And don’t get David started on how Clint will deny how battered he his. Only Agent Romanov and Agent Coulson have made sure he’ll be checked out. It’s only been the past five years where he actually seems to take care of himself. Yet now he’s back to square one, ignoring all his injuring for some vendetta that can wait for five more minutes.

Turns out the archer is picky with whomever patches him up too—this is all Phil’s fault—thus he’s been Clint’s problem. He should be a doctor by the amount of shit he has to deal with him on a daily basis. Sighing, David tosses his clipboard on the counter, “There must be a God with a cruel sense of humor.”

Providing his best winner smile—the one Laura calls I-know-I’m-an-ass-but-I’m-your-ass smile, “I’m your favorite, babe.” To exaggerate, he gives Dave a wink, who in turn rolls his eyes still wondering who delivered this asshole this time. Actually he knows it was the Black Widow, but he’s not willing to lose his arm for refusing taking Clint in.

After the landing, the Widow dragged Hawkeye to the medical bay, refusing to hear any protest from him. Plus, two nurses were ready for him once they landed—Nat must have called ahead, the traitor. But he does owe her since she promised they wouldn’t speak about the Winter Solider unless it’s with Fury or Phil, definitely not Hill. Then she left with a quick ruffle of his hair and silent promise to scavenger more information. Maybe hurt one or two people on the way.

Everybody thinks they know they’re a couple. If David thinks about it, they never really kissed or did anything PDA. Yet, he doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t notice how Clint—given the chance—would check on his wife whenever he was alone. Nor does he notice how Clint’s spark in his eyes seem far dimmer than normal. Nope, he doesn’t notice them. All his focus is on Clint’s bruises—maybe if he pokes hard enough, maybe it will make Clint stop being his problem.

Humming in another ache—honestly, Dave, where’s the morphine? —Clint asks, “So what’s the verdict? Am I able to leave soon?” Because he’d like to go back to put in his spare ears. Living off his left ear is not fun. Yet, the second the last word is out, Agent Coulson marches in like a white knight for his own crusade, “Nowhere.” Leaving no room for argument, but pushing his luck is exactly what Clint does best. Since he was a boy standing up to his shit of a father to now. He’ll keep pushing until—.

Clenching his teeth, he stops his train of thought he knows what he sacrificed for pushing too hard. He only didn’t realize that no matter how careful he is, he could still lose his light. If only he knew what or who he pushed. “Can’t I rest in my apartment?” Clint offers as he leans forward. “A little time with myself and Netflix. My only companion being pizza. Maybe the pizza guy if he wants to stay.”

Phil scuffs, “And for you to stroll around the neighborhood until you get into trouble? I don’t think so. You’ll be staying here until Fury or I say so.”

Over hallucinating Laura’s ghost and being the Winter Soldier’s chew toy, maybe he should. No, he still has a fire inside of him that won’t die by him laying around doing nothing, yet Clint’s doesn’t argue. Hitting his head back against the pillow, he begrudgingly agrees. Besides it wouldn’t be the first time he sneaked out before.

“And Clint?” Clint turns his head over to see Phil standing in the doorway, “If you’re thinking of sneaking out, you might want to rethink it. We still have a debriefing to go over once you’re better.”

With only his left ear in, Clint still understood the underline threat. Slowly he nods.

Like how he entered, Agent Coulson left with his crusade.

“Nap time,” David pushes a liquid into his IV. He’s out before he can let out a word.

-

“You know, I really don’t like hospitals,” states his visitor.

At least that’s what Clint assumes he said, he’s still groggy and the volume seems different than before. — When did he get new ears? — Reaching up to his ears, Clint feels two new aids in place. “Tony,” Clint croaks.

Tony grins, getting up from his seat, “The one and only.” He pauses, handing over a cup of water for Clint, “Unless you know another Tony that give you the best equipment. Also new and improved hearing aids.”

“Ears,” he corrects. Leaning back into his pillows, he glances over Tony—malnourished, needs some sleep. No one would honestly notice unless they were his friend. Pepper’s probably pulling her teeth trying to get him to get some rest. However, there’s no proof he almost died from his own reactor. “I hear you died. Or almost did,” Clint states.

A dark cloud crosses Tony’s face for a second—his near death must have been worse than he’s playing off. The cloud dissipates, waving him off, “I’m impossible to kill. Besides who else will make you new ears? But I’m not here about me,” a pause—what’s wrong with Clint? —and lifts an eyebrow, “And why haven’t you called? I get calls from Agent Coulson and the guy with an eye patch about making a new jet or something. But not one ring from you. I’m hurt,” faking devastated face, placing a hand over his reactor. Tony already hacked into the medical files and the SHIELD reports; nothing too traumatizing, yet something’s a miss with SHIELD’s top agent.

Clint groans, “I’m too drugged to deal with assholes right now.” Was Clint imagining that read? It almost seems like Tony knows something he’s not telling him. Does he know? About Laura? If he knows, he could help find out who killed her. Unless he’s the one who told—No. Tony wouldn’t betray one of his friends… Would he?

_“Tony Stark? You’re friends?” Laura sat at their kitchen table, holding a cup of coffee, “Huh. Then I guess you should invite your sad billionaire friend. You can introduce your mysterious wife,” she smirked, taking a sip of coffee._

“Even if this asshole can get you into your apartment without anyone knowing? Including any super spy agents?” Tony waggles his eyebrows. Dragging himself back to the present, he sits up, “My interest has been peaked. Will it involve my wonderful nurse?”

Not noticing Clint’s slight absence, a wide cat grin spreads, “Of course. But you're not going to be happy by the end of your rescue, Hawk _guy_.”

-

“I hate you,” Clint chomps on the last slice of pizza.

Tony stands, “You love me.” Wiping his hands on his business pants—really, Tony? —As he grabs his suit jacket with a perfectly usable gold handkerchief. “Plus you know you had fun.”

“We will never speak of this,” Clint points at Tony.

“As long as you promise to keep my deal earlier,” Tony counters. He grumbles, “Of course. How could I forget.”

A side grin is Tony’s only response as he strides out of Clint’s apartment.

Sighing, Clint leans back. Once they got here, Tony thought it was a good idea to order twice the amount a normal human eats of pizza. Well there’s only one thing to do: ignore the tower of pizza boxes and pass out. Besides it’ll still be here in the morning.

_“You would make a pizza fort if I left you alone long enough.”_

Shaking an old memory out, Clint deposes his last pizza box with the others—behind the couch.

It’s too late for any real sources to be out—he’s blaming Tony. Nope, he promised himself he’d block the memory out. —Tomorrow he can start looking for info. He can’t do anything with no lead, no facts on how, or that he’s going to ask a few favors that he’d rather not. Especially with that Russian gang around here. Actually, maybe he should check on them. Plus, he needs to keep a low profile until Agent Coulson finds out.

But something has been bothering him a little bit: The Winter Solider. What’s going on with Hydra and torturing their agents? Actually let’s not think about how evil they are. Let’s focus on the Winter Soldier for now.

The facts of Mr. Russian Assassin: he’s tough, has more muscles than any agent—bet even Agent Phil couldn’t take him. A bit sexy—sexy? No, charming is a better word. Since he can change from charming to deadly during a flip of a coin—No he’s losing focus. Then there’s the fact that Natasha had a go with him and barely lived to tell the tale—lethal, yes, more obvious once he’s standing there with his deadly spy glare. However, how can a spy who seem human—alright, human-ish—seem to change from dangerous to murderer. That chair makes a deadly assassin more deadly? But it didn’t have any needles for a chemical body change or any indication of using gamma rays like Doctor Banner or for the all great Captain America. But if it did change others then why don’t they use it on more Hydra agents? Or was there a prerequisite to be even more deadly? If only he had a lead or a file—.

“Ah!” Clint screams, scrubbing his hair and face, “The files!” Scrabbling his brain—what’d he do with them? They left the building, ran for their lives against a deadly force of nature, got into the jet, tossed them to the side. Then he focused on getting home. Once he landed, Natasha dragged him out. He didn’t have time to even remember them. They’re still on the goddamn jet.

Sighing, “Of course. Of course, I’d forget it. I’m the biggest idiot and the worst spy. And I can’t go back to get it without Phil knowing. This is just perfect. Just…” Time for bed. He’s three seconds from wrecking his apartment. If he wasn’t still hurt, he’d be out running around the neighborhood. Ripping out his ears and getting back to his little comfy bed, he’s out after tossing and turning for a while until finally he’s out.

-

Noiselessly, the Asset lifts Agent Baton’s window. Codename: Hawkeye, Agent Barton. Objective: Return Subject 119-E alive to Dr. Cammis for further testing. Bring objective back alive by any means possible. The mission will be easy enough, since the Subject doesn’t bother locking the windows. Sloppy. Should have stayed at the hospital. At least there, the Asset would have a challenge.

Creeping forward, he finds Subject 119-E sleeping in his own room. Newly furnished too. Keeping his eyes locked on him, he brings out his knife for safety measures. He has not faced him before, but he’s informed that this subject has a bigger bite than the previous subjects. However, all the Asset seems to worry is 119-E’s snoring. Sloppy and loud. Why Dr. Cammis assumes he’ll be perfect, escapes Barnes’ head.

_Barnes?_

The Asset blinks, where’d that—The mission. Nothing else matters.

The Subject stills. Carefully, the Asset creeps back into the darkest corner of the Subject’s apartment— furthest from the window, next to the door. Yet 119-E continues snoring. With how careful this subject is, they should have brought in someone less qualified than him.

Slowly, the Subject tightens into a ball heaving in and out until a small whimper escapes.

Why’s he crying? He hasn’t even started threatening him.

Again, the Asset creeps forward, making sure not to cast any shadows to wake the Subject. Up close, he can see a scruffy blonde with bad black eye. — _The Asset punches the agent in the face. He brought in, wasn’t easy. He’s like a fox—hard to catch and clever._

A memory? Does he know this subject? No, that’s not possible. Must be a program error. He can not afford errors. The Asset is lethal. The Asset is petrifying. The Asset is a nightmare. Not flawed. Flaws receive the chair.

A small sniff breaks the silence again and breaking the Asset’s inner monologue. If he was a fox, he doesn’t seem like one now. More likely a kitten. A cold kitten.

Without thinking, the Asset pulls the Subject’s covers over up. Yet, he freezes with the blanket hovering over his shoulders. He should move before Hawkeye wakes up, but… No. The mission is more important, being warm for one more minute won’t help him. Consciously, the Asset brings out his knife again—when did he put it away? Now he’s getting sloppy. —About to press the dull side to Subject 119-E’s neck.

Slowly Hawkeye opens his eyes, a small smile spreads, “Hey sweetie.”

The Solider freezes in place, staring into such soft grey eyes. This is a first. Usually, he receives screams, punches, maybe a maniac laughter, or begging. There’s always begging. There’s only death when he’s involved. But this smile, devoid of any mania, seems to shine the room. Almost give the Asset’s heart a warm beat.

A hand presses to his cheek, startling him out of his thoughts. Oh that smile, “Where’d you go? Don’t leave again.” A small tear escapes Hawkeye’s eyelashes, falling onto the Asset’s knife. “Promise me, Laura,” Clint whispers. His arm falls back, as sleep takes over again.

A small piece of the Asset breaks. Of course it’s not for him, the Subject 119-E is still sleeping and thinks the Asset’s this Laura person. Girlfriend? It doesn’t matter. He’s the Asset. His life is only surrounded by cold blood and Death, himself. The mission is all that matters. Yet, that smile…

Another whimper escapes his lips. The Asset represses a sigh; the knife disappears back to his leg. Running his hand softy over this disheveled blonde hair for a couple of minutes until Agent Barton calms down enough. In ten minutes, he’s crept back out the same window he came in. But not without covering Hawkeye with a blanket.

Tomorrow. He’ll get Agent Barton tomorrow.


End file.
